I will not write in green.
There are no adventures for me.
No films with watery sunlight.
No sea-worn glass on a pebbly beach.
No pirates to sing my praise,
no evil lairs that I set ablaze.
But no matter.
There are worse tragedies at play (they say):
The birth of a man.
‘The boy is gone’,
they cry,
eyes warm and too bright.
And it echoes into the tearful night:
the boy is gone.
–but the girl was never even born,
and her story lies blank.
No grand tales in golden lettering,
purple leaves or dark blue dreams.
No crown to place atop her head
or cape of torn, worn sheets.
what is a boy, but a young, bright thing
scrambling to love what it can.
what is a girl but a dangling string,
once taut, now barely seen.
Broomstick cowboy, won’t you stay?
Bless this land with songs of play.
Dreaming girl, won’t you wake?
Don’t you see the things at stake.
Yours Truly,
Simran
Crumbling Moons 